But it'll be whisky, I'm thinking; for I heard him at clishmaclavers with one of these randy, drucken old Eirishers." My blood boiled.

"She was _not_ drunk!" said I."And she's--she's a great friend of mine." "Whisht! whisht, man! We'll be heard.

I ask your pardon, I'm sure." I made no reply.

The Scotchman's tone was unpleasantly dry.

Besides it was very difficult to give vent to one's just indignation in whispers, and I still felt giddy, though I was resting my back against some of the lumber, rather comfortably.
"You'll no be Eirish, yourself ?" the Scotchman asked in his own accent, which was as strong in its way as Biddy's.
"I'm English," I said.
"Just so.